


Liberty or Death

by kalimero



Category: Assassin's Creed, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Assassin's Creed AU, Eventual Enjolras/Grantaire, F/M, Gen, M/M, kind of canon timeline, kink meme fill, prepare for worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-06 22:32:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/740896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalimero/pseuds/kalimero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Les Mis Assassin’s Creed AU</b> in which Valjean is an estranged Assassin on the run, Javert is a good Templar looking for order and the Les Amis d’ABC are a Brotherhood of Assassins trying to stir a revolution in Paris.</p>
<p>
  <i>“If there was one thing [he] trusted in an Assassin, he trusted his ability to be precise in the art of death.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> **Based on this (super old)[prompt](http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/11667.html?thread=2180755#t2180755) from the Les Mis kink meme:** Assassin's Creed!AU where Les Amis are Assassins and their Grand Master Assassin was Lamarque (seriously, from how I read the summary of his life, we can categorize him as an Assassin) who just died. And then, Templar!Javert and... its up to the writer what to do about Valjean. But somehow, I can picture him as past Assassin trying to run from his past and then, getting caught up with once again with the AC vs Templars fight (because somehow, Cosette fell in love with Assassin Marius).

# Prologue

 

“Who’s there?”

The breath of the man was shallow and his voice frightened. He had been confined to his bed for weeks now, having fallen ill with the plague that had already claimed thousands of citizens. A chill descended on the room and he wondered whether he was hallucinating again. It was dark. Outside, the moon had chosen not to shine his benevolent light on the creatures lurking in the night. But… something moved in the shadows of the far corner, something or – someone.

The man wanted to scream and found that he couldn’t for the cholera had left him weak and deprived of his senses. Surely there was someone there. He was seeing… but he wasn’t seeing anything. There was nothing there, only a breeze flowing in through the open window.

The heartbeat of the man started to slow. He was feeling thirsty and longed for water but when he reached for the cut-glass cup on his nightstand, a floorboard creaked right next to him and then all of a sudden a face was obscuring his view, urging him to stay quiet by putting a finger to his mouth and poking a dagger to his gut. All will to fight left him instantly. In the twilight, he recognized the hood and what it meant. They had come to claim his life.

_“Bon soir, monsieur Périer,”_ the stranger whispered with a surprisingly youthful voice.

“Are you here to kill me?” the man bit back even though he couldn’t ignore how he had started sweating again. His insides felt like they had been set ablaze. It might have been the illness.

“No,” the stranger answered politely and with a smile that the man could only hear, “no, you’re dying already.”

“Then what do you want?”

“Only to ask some questions.”

The man snorted derisively and shook his head as much as the little energy that he had still preserved allowed it. Questions, questions. They had sent someone to ask him questions! At an hour like this, on the brink of revolution, his enemies had chosen to make inquiries. It amused him greatly but faced with the unwavering figure before him, he swallowed to wet his dry throat and croaked:

“Do what you must.”

A pitiful sigh greeted his words or maybe it was an exasperated expiration. Maybe neither. Maybe it was the wind.

For a long time, the stranger said nothing and the silence stretched to the point where one wonders if there had ever been something else. Bound to his bed, the man grew impatient. Finally, long contemplated thoughts found their expression in a carefully chosen way, not yet revealing true intent. Mere statements, as if the stranger was speaking to himself.

“You are Casimir Pierre Périer, the President of the Chamber of Deputies.”

“I know who I am.”

“You are a Master Templar.”

“Do you have questions?” the man replied haughtily. Of course there was no point in denial.

“Why did you visit the Hôtel-Dieu six weeks ago?”

“To see after the poor and the sick, as is my duty.”

“The poor and the sick…”

The stranger sounded constrained for the first time, as if barely repressing his anger. When he continued, he seemed to be trembling, it translated to his voice. The dagger pressed against the stomach of the man was also quivering.

“How convenient that the poorest are the sickest as well.”

“I wouldn’t call it _convenient_.”

As if to underline his words, the man was overcome with a fit of violent coughs which shook his body almost as much as the vomiting had these past few days. The stranger gripped the front of his nightgown, steadying him. Even the firm prick of the dagger felt like a relief in that moment. A release of pain inflicted by pain, such is human nature.

“How would you call the rumors then?”

“What rumors? I don’t care for whispers on the street.”

“The people are convinced that the government is poisoning the wells.”

“Ah, that. That I call gossip and all gossip is nonsense,” the man sneered. Shuddering, he tried to take slow breaths, feeling weaker than ever before.

“So it wasn’t a scheme by you?”

“By me?! Have you seen-“

“Yes, yes, you are very sick. But on your visit you were accompanied by the Duke of Orléans, a man favored by the people.”

“Are you suggesting-“

“Don’t pretend that your Order doesn’t want to see him dead.”

The man huffed and drew a ragged breath. His light hair was stuck to the sweat on his forehead. He wondered what he had done to deserve this – to be interrogated in the night like a lowly criminal.

“We would have him restore order,” he rasped with enough conviction to make the grip on his nightgown ease.

“You believe that?” the stranger asked softly and with something akin to pity. The man hated it. He didn’t need pity from anyone, least of all an _Assassin_.

“He can unite us in a common cause. Monarchy and democracy reconciled.”

“Were it not that they excluded each other.”

“Always the radical. And yet you accuse us of tyranny.”

“Actions speak louder than words. You have never sought anything but power.”

“Control! We seek control. We want peace.”

“Peace without freedom.”

“It’s the only peace there is.”

“No, it’s the only peace there isn’t. Peace without freedom is an illusion.”

“And now we move in the never-ending circle that shall be your downfall and our triumph. Where you are idealists, we are realists.”

“You lack vision, courage and faith. You take what is there and twist it to sin because it’s the easy thing to do. But don’t mistake the bitter taste of profit for triumph.”

The man laughed a hearty laugh that rang hollow in the dark room. His father had been a banker and he had been a banker. He knew about finances and he knew about profit. Now that his life was closing in at the mere age of 54, he felt it more keenly than ever – nothing had ever been achieved and nothing could ever be achieved that was not built on existing ground and from there it could only grow to benefit a few. A world without the poor seemed unimaginable. He was not sure whether it seemed undesirable but, as he had said, he was a realist.

Swallowing, he let his gaze linger on the face of his opponent, a few lines illuminated by whatever pale light had found its way into the chamber. This wasn’t the hardened skin of a man aged by his profession. It had to be someone young indeed, as the voice had already revealed. Someone not yet marred by having to witness the futility of his resolve. Someone full of purpose and in possession of a swift hand to serve it. A boy.

“Why would I tell you anything?” the man spit with a grin. Breathing was becoming more difficult and his head felt heavy. Fatigue made the world swim before his eyes.

“Because I can end your suffering.”

It was spoken plainly, as much a threat as it was a promise. Suddenly the man was aware of the dagger against his gut; awfully, painfully aware.

He blinked. Was this supposed to be a peace offering? Had the Assassin come out of kindness? The stranger couldn’t have hoped to gain any intelligence from him. Whatever the plans of the Templars, the man would take them to his grave, as he had once sworn. Being a Master Templar, being allowed into the Inner Sanctum, it came with responsibilities.

But this was the enemy. A member of a sect founded to kill. There would never be kindness between them, only death and more death until no one was left to continue the fight. 

The man didn’t know whether he still carried that fight in him when he said:

“Then do it!”

He was tired, so tired, but his voice was laced with defiance.

The stranger didn’t sigh or show other signs of disappointment. Instead he pulled back his hood, granting the man the unspoken request to die facing his foe. Shaking his head slightly, he unconsciously brought attention to his golden curls that shimmered even in the gloom. They made him look angelic.

But his face, oh, his face! It was beautiful, very much so, but grim. Never before had the man seen someone so solemn despite being blessed by nature. But the Assassins had always been a peculiar brand of humans, determined and single-minded. This one proved to be no exception.

He didn’t offer his name or broke words both of them knew would be wasted now. Instead he raised his dagger and positioned it above the heart. Good. If there was one thing Casimir Pierre Périer trusted in an Assassin, he trusted his ability to be precise in the art of death. Cruelty was a device better left to those who cared to wield it. 

The man waited for his end to come. Again there was silence and it would have been deafening had it not been for the blood rushing through his ears. The Assassin didn’t ask if he had any last words but he didn’t act either, so the man breathed:

_“Vive le Roi.”_

It was only then that the blade was driven into his flesh and as life drained away and the world grew distant, he thought that he heard the soft whisper:

_“Vive la liberté.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haven’t read the brick! (I know, I know.) I'll try to incorporate stuff from it but I'm mostly familiar with the musical/TV adaptions. It wasn't specified in the original prompt but having this in the original historical setting made sense to me given the nature of the AC games. 
> 
> As far as pairings go, I’m still somewhat undecided (except for eventual Enjolras/Grantaire because of reasons and Marius/Cosette because of plot) so feel free to request other pairings! I'll see what I can do ;-)
> 
> (I guess I should mention that English’s not my first language and this was unbeta’d aaand… really, I have no excuse other than that this prompt needed to be filled :D)
> 
> Like it? Don't like it? Either way, comments are love ♥


	2. Running From the Past

It was a stormy day. Jean Valjean was wandering through the Jardin du Luxembourg, his adoptive daughter Cosette at his side, throwing cautious glances over his shoulder now and then, all the while wondering where he had gone wrong. And as he looked at the young girl ( _woman_ , his brain supplied, _woman_ ), he wondered whether he had gone wrong at all.

Jean Valjean had lived many lives. He had been a pruner, just like his father, and cutting trees was all that he had ever learned from him. Reading or writing, he hadn’t learned those.

He had been orphaned at a young age and he had supported his sister when her husband had died; his sister and her seven children. He had been, above else, poor, and then he had been a convict and a galley slave for 19 long years.

Now he was an ex-convict and an ex-mayor and he was rich – or at least more so than when he had been young.

In between Valjean had also been an Assassin but that was a part of his life that he always neglected to include. He still wasn’t sure whether he considered himself an ex-Assassin because once you had sworn the creed it was a part of you as much as you were a part of the Brotherhood. Maybe that’s where he had gone wrong. Not the stealing, the lying, no, this. There was no redemption for murder.

Having been a prisoner in the Bagne of Toulon wasn’t something that he wanted people to know but having been an Assassin… that was a truth he tried to hide even from himself. It seemed ridiculous now, in retrospect, to have been part of that secret society. Admittedly, killing hadn’t been the only purpose – it had merely been a means to an end. The thought of freedom was what had driven them. The hope of liberation.

Of course, in those days the Assassins in France had been at a low point and they still hadn’t yet fully recovered from the chaos set in motion in 1789. What should have been their shining hour had become their darkest when friends had turned to foes and much as the revolutionaries had soon been divided, so had the Assassins. Most had supported the Girondists, some the Montagnards but there had been no consensus on what course of action to take. While the Templars had stood united against the revolution, the Assassins had scattered. Some among the lower ranks had sought to end the _Grande Terreur_ on their own, without skill but with conviction, among them Charlotte Corday who had murdered Marat in his bathtub (“I killed one man to save 100,000” she would later say at her trial) and Charles-André Merda who had attempted to shoot Robespierre during his arrest. Robespierre had been executed the next day. As Pierre Vergniaud had said, walking to the scaffold himself: _La Révolution est comme Saturne: elle dévore ses propres enfants._ (And, like Saturn, the revolution had indeed devoured all its children.)

And so, when the Assassins had recruited Valjean, they had been weak, weakened further by the advent and rise of Napoleon who had gained a Piece of Eden through his association with the Templars, paving the way for his military success. Though he had never chosen between the Order and the Brotherhood, preferring to stay his own man and using every possible connection to his personal advantage, he had rendered the Assassins and their cause worthless by conquering most of Europe and ending the revolutionary attempts at a democracy, at least for the time being.

“Papa, you’re so deep in thought. Won’t you tell me what troubles your mind?” Cosette chirped with a concerned voice and Valjean was suddenly reminded that he was here with her, in the present, taking a walk through the park. No matter how hard he tried not to dwell on the past, his mind always found a way back.

“Nothing. It’s nothing,” he answered with a smile and was grateful – not for the first time – that lies fell so easily from his lips. For an Assassin, deceit had always been a powerful ally.

Looking at his lovely Cosette, Valjean couldn’t help the ache that spread in his chest. She was such a precious girl, such a lonely child, a bird not meant for cages and solitude. The interest with which she looked upon the world, the wonder in her eyes, it all spoke of her secret wish to develop wings and soar through the sky. It was a shame, really, that it wasn’t meant to be. But Valjean didn’t feel selfish for keeping her because first and foremost he was keeping her safe. Thinking back to how his life had been at her age, she really should’ve had nothing to complain about.

He had never held the law in high regard and it might’ve been because he had always been poor and thus unfavored by society. Laws were made with property in mind and the protection of property and that had always been the greatest concern of those in charge. It was no wonder Valjean had taken to the ideals of the Assassins quickly. They had noticed him for his strength and his stealthy little thefts and when they had approached him, he really had had nothing to lose and everything to gain by joining them. Yes, he had believed in their radical rhetoric.

_Nothing is true, everything is permitted._

And then he had been captured on a mission and instead of admitting to attempted murder, he had pleaded guilty to stealing a loaf of bread. Which, by comparison, had seemed innocent enough.

5 years. The Assassins had let him rot in jail for 5 years. And another 14 after that. When he had attempted to escape by himself, they had not come to his aid. It was then that Valjean had first become disillusioned. Of course they hadn’t helped him. He had only been a low ranking Assassin then, barely joined, and pulling strings to set someone like him free would’ve raised suspicions. 

After he had finally been released, they had made contact again. They had provided a new identity and a position in a new town, Montreuil-sur-Mer. But they had wanted him to work for them again and he had considered it, considered it for a long time. Had it not been for his encounter with Bishop Myriel, he might have crawled back into the folds of the Brotherhood again, the only place that had promised the feeling of _home_. But there had been the Bishop and there had been Javert, the inspector who had still known him from his time as a prison guard in Toulon and who happened to also be a Templar because that’s just how things were, and there had been Fantine and then there had been Cosette.

Valjean had lived many lives and now he was living the life of a fugitive, running from both the Assassins and the Templars, the future and the past. Sometimes he felt like suffocating, like he would never be able to breathe freely again. He knew that he had to atone for the sins of his youth and for the lives he had taken but then he looked around, just as he was doing it now, and he saw thugs lurking at the edge of the gardens in broad daylight and he felt anger at the way the world worked. The poor turned to crime same as the rich but the difference was that the poor were already punished by their meager existence. And yet they were the ones that – when they looked at Cosette leeringly or threatened him for some coins – he wanted to dispose of quickly. It was always pity that stayed his hand in the end.

Something caught the corner of his eye when Cosette tucked at his arm, still concerned.

“Papa, are you sure that you’re alright?”

“Yes, my dear. I may just be feeling a bit under the weather. Would you mind if we went home?”

“No, no, of course not! I think it’s threatening to rain.”

“Yes, the clouds are drawing near.”

“We better hurry.”

Sweet child. She always put her well-being before his. It made Valjean feel guilty about lying to her. She would’ve loved to stay in the Jardin, he knew that. But just as he was lying to her, she bravely lied to him. It almost made him proud to detect something of himself in his daughter, even if they weren’t related by blood.

The truth was that he had spotted someone watching them and he really was eager to get home though for none of the reasons he could tell Cosette. At first he hadn’t been sure, blaming his paranoia for seeing things in the shadows that weren’t there but Valjean had been an Assassin long enough to recognize one when he saw one. And there was definitely an Assassin trailing them now as they briskly walked out of the park and into the bustling streets. The attempts of the Assassin to stalk them seemed amateurish at best and Valjean wondered why he hadn’t noticed him before. Going by whatever little glimpses he was able to catch of him, it was a young man, maybe not even initiated yet. Valjean felt a little insulted that they would set a novice on his case but he didn’t know anything about the state the Brotherhood was in. Maybe they were in worse shape than he’d thought.

Be as it may, as Valjean weaved through the masses of pedestrians, trying to get lost in the crowd, he felt reminded of all the times he had tried to go undetected in large groups of people. He felt reminded of all the times guards had come looking for him. Never letting go of Cosette’s hand, pulling her along, he wondered whether it would ever end.

Then he thought of Javert and knew that it never would, regardless of this boy and everything that might follow in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, sorry for the heavy exposition! I just had to get some of that background stuff off my chest, phew. It’s been some time since I’ve played the games but afaik it was never specified how the French Assassins acted during the revolution. For some reason, I can’t imagine it as anything but a hot mess.
> 
> Next up: Les Amis de l’ABC aka the Brotherhood of Paris!


	3. The End is the Beginning

Restlessly, Enjolras paced through the headquarters they had set up hidden in the sewer system beneath Paris, waiting for news on General Lamarque. Their leader had fallen ill with the same disease that had plagued Perier when Enjolras had visited him two weeks ago. But where Perier had only been a Master Templar, Lamarque was far more important. As the Mentor of the French Assassins he had guided their fortunes (and misfortunes) for many years now and navigated them through troubled times. If he were to die… but Enjolras quickly reminded himself that Perier hadn’t died a natural death either. There was still hope that Lamarque might live. Because if he were to die… who would take his place? Even though he was young, Enjolras had quickly ascended the ranks and was now second-in-command. He felt no fear of being a leader but assuming the mantle of the Mentor was something different altogether. He had too little experience for that and too many aspirations of going out into the battlefield himself.

Folding and unfolding his fingers in an uncharacteristically nervous fashion, Enjolras was glad that there was no one there to witness him in such a state of insecurity. Well, no one except for Grantaire but the drunkard was lying in the corner of the room obscured from view, probably sleeping off his delirium. Sometimes Enjolras wondered why he even allowed him into the headquarters, seeing as Grantaire wasn’t even part of the Brotherhood and, moreover, demoralizing. Combeferre, his most trusted advisor, had given him many a questioning glance about this before but Enjolras had never felt like explaining himself because in his heart he knew the reasons. Grantaire was a gifted artist who had been introduced to the group by Bousset when Enjolras had looked for someone to sketch them some new weapon designs. In the beginning Grantaire had seemed more than able as well but now he more often nursed his bottles than pens. Having already been privy to some of their secrets, there had only been two options: Kill him or let him stay because while Enjolras didn’t trust the artist’s tongue loosened by wine, he trusted him not to betray them absent involuntary opportunity.

Jehan Prouvaire, self-proclaimed poet when he wasn’t assassinating people, had remarked that Grantaire seemed like one of those stray cats that someday wander into your home uninvited and then just never leave until you start providing them with a bowl of milk as if it had always been your intention. Enjolras was pretty sure that Jehan had even written a full-blown poem based on that allegory. He had seemed pretty excited.

Bending down to study one of the maps laid out on the table, Enjolras felt sure to have done everything in his power for the moment. He had strategized with Combeferre in the morning. He had sent the others on their errands, be it restocking medical supplies in Joly’s case or eavesdropping on the National Guard in Gavroche’s case. Gavroche wasn’t a member of the Assassin Brotherhood either but the street urchin had always proved a valuable source of information. He was ever so eager to share the latest news from the grapevine and, well, he accepted payment in cash. Enjolras had no doubt that when Gavroche came of age, he’d be the first to sign up with them. And he had even less doubt that the boy would make the most welcome addition.

Even though the Assassins had started to reorganize themselves after the Congress of Vienna where the Templars had gained strong influence in the form of Metternich, they were still a long way from finding back to old strength. The situation was the same all over Europe, except for England, where the Glorious Revolution had changed the balance of power in 1688. The Assassins from the colonies in the New World had lent assistance in restructuring the Brotherhood in France. During the American Revolutionary War, the Marquis de Lafayette had come into contact with a great Assassin named Connor who had later visited him in Paris. Based on this connection, a bond had been forged. Even though Lafayette wasn’t an Assassin himself, he was a sympathizer, now growing old in age but valuable nonetheless. Still, it hadn’t been enough. The colonial Assassins themselves had only started to gain notoriety again under Connor. All over the world, the Brotherhood had been in shambles for the longest time. It was a good thing then that change was in the air.

Back in the present, Enjolras passed his time by leafing through Montesquieu’s _De l'esprit des lois_ – he had read it far too often already and reprimanded himself for not remembering to obtain _Considérations sur les causes de la grandeur des Romains et de leur decadence_ in due time. They had a fine collection of books down here, enough to almost call it a library but it might also have been called ornamental decoration for it was rarely made use of. Even Jehan preferred writing to reading nowadays because time was short and, as he put it, “why fill my head with the thoughts of others when I have my own words to waste”.

Enjolras hated waiting but he couldn’t well have left the headquarters unattended. Lamarque was ill and so someone else had to fulfill the unrewarding duty. Going through the books, Enjolras grabbed Rousseau’s _Du contrat social_ next. It had been longer since he had perused this work and there were always new depths to uncover. Settling into an armchair, he thought that he should’ve been happier about some leisure time or, as Cicero and Seneca had called it, _otium_. It was not a selfish pursuit of pleasure – and yet he felt restless. He hadn’t earned this reward, this time of peace and tranquility.

So it was with a suppressed sigh of relief that Enjolras noticed Grantaire stirring in his corner. If Enjolras was a Stoic, Grantaire was an Epicurean, only that his absence of pain was achieved by downing wine or worse. Well, the comparison was flawed.

Snapping the book shut, Enjolras stood and crossed the distance between them. He didn’t know what he wanted to say but he knew that he wanted to stare disapprovingly and so he did. At first, Grantaire merely grabbed his head as if still disoriented and tangled his fingers in his black mess of hair. Glancing around, he made it a point to look anywhere but the person standing before him with crossed arms. Finally his eyes landed on Enjolras and a smile spread on his lips at the sight of him despite the weariness on his face.

“To what do I owe the honor of basking in your presence?” he grinned stupidly and with mockery in his voice. Enjolras never knew when to take him seriously. 

“Grantaire,” he sighed, “did you do the drawings I asked of you?”

The smile fell from Grantaire’s face and he swallowed, suddenly scrubbing at his eyes and mumbling, “What day is it?”

Enjolras took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. He hadn’t expected otherwise, he never did, so it always came as a surprise that he could still be disappointed. And he was. Every. Single. Time.

He said nothing, knowing full well that his silence was answer enough. Grantaire blinked and nodded, again looking anywhere else but him, wringing his hands awkwardly. Finally, his eyes settled on the ground strewn with empty bottles.

“I wanted you to study Leonardo da Vinci’s works for a reason,” Enjolras finally said, tight-lipped.

“I know… I know,” was all Grantaire could respond softly. Shaking his head at himself, he glanced up again with a feverish look in his eyes. It all didn’t matter, none of it did, life had no meaning beyond death, the fate that saw everyone united at last, but it mattered to Enjolras and he… 

“You will have them tomorrow! Tonight! I can do it, I swear!” Grantaire suddenly exclaimed with newfound fervor and conviction and if it had been the first time, Enjolras would’ve believed him. He knew that Grantaire could do it, otherwise he wouldn’t have let him into the heart of their operations to begin with. He had seen talent and promise and promises was all it ever was. 

Grantaire didn’t believe in himself and in nothing else and even if he had believed in something else, it wouldn’t have been enough, Enjolras was sure of this. The Assassin wasn’t known for being sentimental so he wondered why he hadn’t put an end to this already. Then he saw Grantaire’s earnest look and pleading expression and he knew why.

“Go eat something first,” he sighed, his stance one of defeat. Grantaire didn’t look so well.

The man opened his mouth to speak, maybe to make more promises they both knew he wouldn’t _(couldn’t)_ keep but in that very moment Joly returned from his mission, beaming as happily as ever despite his hypochondriac disposition. Soon the others followed one by one until the place was lively with conversation and training.

Looking around, Enjolras found Grantaire gone. He had slipped from his side somewhere along the way, probably to find a quiet corner and…

“Enjolras!” someone shouted from the doorway and he knew by the voice that it must’ve been Marius, having arrived at last. And indeed, it was Marius with Courfeyrac trailing behind him.

Enjolras schooled his expression into one of mild annoyance. It didn’t take any effort.

“Marius, you’re late,” he scolded, trying his best not to sound as exasperated as he felt. His foul mood, brought on by the altercation with Grantaire, would do no good if he didn’t reign himself in a little.

“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost!” Bahorel interjected from the back which drew laughter from most of them except for Enjolras. Marius did look rattled and something must’ve happened because Courfeyrac smiled knowingly, leaning into the doorway.

“Not a ghost but…” Marius grinned excitedly before he could stop himself. Then he bit his tongue and cringed when he felt Enjolras’ stare.

“But what?”

“Nothing.”

Enjolras shook his head solemnly and settled his back against the table, crossing his arms. He didn’t like being lied to and he didn’t like being lied to without any skill. Most of all he didn’t like being lied to by an apprentice who hoped to become a member of their Brotherhood. He would never allow someone to join them whom he couldn’t trust. And he had given Marius a simple enough task, to scout the market, a beginner’s task really.

“What took you so long?”

Although the conversations of the others hadn’t ceased, they had become muffled as everyone was watching their leader now from the corner of their eyes with barely veiled curiosity. At one point or another they had all been subject to Lamarque’s or Enjolras’ severe examination. The old man and the young idealist were very similar in their approach. Maybe that’s why Enjolras had been chosen as his right-hand man despite his lack of years (though – and any of them would’ve admitted this – he was in fact the most skilled).

“Ah, well…” Marius fumbled with his words, scratching his head. “It was just, uh, more difficult than I’d thought.”

This wouldn’t do. This wouldn’t do at all. Enjolras glared at him with steely, cold eyes. Even though Marius flinched, he didn’t say anything else so it was Courfeyrac’s turn to speak up. Pushing himself away from the doorway, he stepped in front of the ginger-haired, somewhat nerdy recruit with whom he had already struck up a firm friendship. Now however, Courfeyrac addressed Enjolras.

“He went to the park and spied on a man and his pretty young daughter. More on his daughter I’d say. When they left he tried to follow them but we lost them in the crowd.”

“We?!” Marius screeched, his head turning red as beet. “You stalked me?”

“You stalked her, I stalked you,” Courfeyrac shrugged nonchalantly, flopping into one of the chairs. “Why didn’t you just ask her out? Take my advice on this, brother, women don’t like being stalked.”

Courfeyrac, ever the ladies’ man.

“But I do? I thought you were my friend!”

Courfeyrac shrugged again but avoided Marius’ gaze. Before it could get any uglier, Enjolras stepped in and raised a hand. Immediately, the room fell silent. Turning towards Marius, Enjolras could hardly keep himself from rolling his eyes.

“He didn’t stalk you, I asked him to watch you. Don’t try to make him feel guilty for following my word when that’s what you should have done.”

“So you do this with every new recruit?” Marius asked petulantly but also somewhat sheepishly.

“No,” Enjolras answered honestly.

“Then why-“

“Because you come from a long line of Templars!”

There it was. Spelled out what was obvious to everyone except it seemed Marius himself. Taken aback, the young man suddenly looked lost. His brows furrowed defiantly but his voice was almost a whisper.

“I’m nothing like them.”

Enjolras’ face softened ever so slightly. He uncrossed his arms and approached Marius, laying a hand on his shoulder. Thankfully, the others took this as a sign to mind their own conversations again though Courfeyrac still threw them glances in between his chats.

“Marius, I do not doubt you mean it well. But that’s not enough. To become an Assassin, you have to earn our trust. What were you doing following that girl? We have a cause, a cause that demands lives to be sacrificed and one day one of those lives will be your own. I told you in the beginning that we aren’t afforded the luxury of a normal life. We don’t expect you to be celibate – and if we did we would be even less in numbers,” Enjolras made it a point to look at Courfeyrac, “but you have to stay focused. I have to know that you’re with us no matter what. And I can’t have you lying to me. If this had been after the ceremony… well, since you’re still uninitiated I’m willing to forgive mistakes but don’t try my patience.”

Marius nodded slowly. His shame was etched into his features. He was obviously torn between the worlds with no place to go other than here. Enjolras wasn’t sure whether he would ever fully introduce Marius into the brotherhood, knowing that he didn’t share all their beliefs and that he seemed to yearn for a family, for love, more than anything else. Every Assassin in this room had his own tragic story to share about family and love and how it had been ripped from him. Only those shattered illusions allowed for the Assassin ideals to take root. Marius had lived too sheltered a life, had enjoyed too blessed an upbringing to understand.

Now he looked genuinely confused as he asked, “What about Grantaire?”

Grantaire. Of course. He was allowed into the inner circle time and time again despite trying the patience of Enjolras with his cynicism and his careless attitude (which was what all the others seemed to like so well about him). Still, it was different and Enjolras clenched his jaw angrily for no reason he could discern.

“He isn’t a member of the Brotherhood and he doesn’t want to be one.”

“But if he-“

“If he wanted to join, I wouldn't allow it. Even so, he doesn’t lie to me.”

“You trust him?”

Why had this conversation suddenly turned to Grantaire and why did Enjolras feel even more annoyed than usual? It had been too long since his last assassination had taken his mind off everything that troubled him.

“I trust you not to question my judgment and I trust you to tell me the truth from now on. Now why were you harassing the girl?”

“I wasn’t- I wasn’t harassing her. I have seen her in the park before.”

“Where?”

“The Jardin du Luxembourg.”

“And you fell in love with her.”

It was a tale as old as mankind.

“No, I mean… I just… I like looking at her? I finished my errand early and didn’t think you would mind if I went there. I know the time of their daily walks but all I ever do is watch them, I swear. It only occurred to me that I might’ve done something wrong when I entered this room.”

“You did. But no more of it. How come you lost them in a crowd? I already taught you how to trail people without raising suspicions or losing your target.”

“And I did everything just as you’ve shown it to me but… I think her father spotted me and made them leave and I think he is the reason they eluded me.”

“Curious,” Enjolras murmured pensively. A memory was stirring but stopped short of surfacing. There had been a man once, a disgraced Assassin, who had allegedly fled the Brotherhood with his daughter in tow, running from them ever since. Lamarque had told him about it before ordering him to keep an eye out. But the details of the affair were fuzzy to Enjolras. He would have to ask Lamarque about it.

If Marius wanted to live in denial about his true feelings for that girl, very well. Enjolras wouldn’t act as Cupid. He had better things to do. In fact, he’d instruct Courfeyrac to make sure Marius forgot about her. If the boy ever wanted to become a member, he would have to leave all of this behind.

“Am I forgiven now?” Marius inquired with such pain in his eyes that Enjolras took pity on him. Marius was not the first to be made a fool by his feelings nor would he be the last. Of course Enjolras considered himself above such trivial matters but he didn’t want to be unnecessarily harsh so he smiled the smallest exasperated smile and clapped Marius on the back. From across the room, Courfeyrac gave them a thumbs up.

Releasing Marius into the embrace of wine and the comfort of company, Enjolras found himself observing his brothers fondly. Later they would have to devise the missions of the night but for now he could let them have this moment of joyful laughter and much-deserved rest.

Although he didn’t join them in drink, he joined them in conversation and was soon deeply engaged with Combeferre in a philosophical debate. The medical student always proved to have interesting opinions on all matters of life and his quiet, reassuring nature was pleasant to absorb.

They had just moved on to the topic of Stoicism versus Epicureanism (Enjolras neglected to mention why it was on his mind) when Gavroche burst into the assembling room, covered in sewage. The commonly used entrance to their underground headquarters was in the cellar of the Café Musain, a well-considered camouflage (nobody was suspicious of students entering at odd times or staying for long), but sometimes the sewers provided a shortcut, depending on where a person started to travel. Gavroche seemed to have been in need of it.

His face was grave though for reasons other than his personal hygiene. Tears shimmered in his eyes and everyone fell silent before he had even whispered a word. It was a short moment of tranquility, a moment that somehow seemed to last forever.

“Lamarque is dead!” the boy cried and something shattered in the silence, something unspoken and unheard. Dread seeped through their bones.

So the illness had claimed him. After spending decades fighting off foes, nature had played its part. Amidst all the death they caused and witnessed, it was strange to be reminded of their own mortality. Power creates the illusion of eternity for those who brandish it, albeit shortly. All daggers will turn to ash one day as will all crosses. Assassins and Templars, destined to perform this dance for as long as they exist, until the people of tomorrow take over.

Every head in the room turned to Enjolras who sat there, shocked, barely able to comprehend what he had expected, no less. He felt their eyes on him and heard their questions in his mind. Had his fingers trembled, nobody would’ve seen but he kept them perfectly still. There was a calm within him that was only challenged by the sudden cold.

Finally he stood but he didn’t say a word for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again with the expositional background stuff. I guess I’m just into history. No excuses there.
> 
> Next up: Templar!Javert. And then the plot will thicken. (Actually the next chapter may take a little longer, so apologies in advance.)


	4. In the Line of Duty

“Gentlemen, we are under attack,” Monsieur Gillenormand said dryly, folding his hands on the table. The old man scanned the room, looking for reactions. Some of the Templars visibly flinched, others kept their face a careful mask of impassivity, among them Javert, the inscrutable police inspector. One seat was empty.

“As you may have noticed, Casimir isn’t with us today and as you may have heard, he was murdered two weeks ago.”

“Was it them?” one of the cloaked figures asked. Some had chosen to remain in disguise. It didn’t bother Gillenormand, seeing as how he knew all of them. He was their Grand Master after all.

“Who else?” someone bit angrily and Gillenormand raised a hand to command silence. They all turned to him immediately.

“We don’t know for sure,” the old man started, “but I suspect that it was the young lieutenant of Lamarque whom we’ve heard so much about in the last months. Of course, as of yesterday Lamarque is dead so this second-in-command may well have succeeded him. I must say that I’m disappointed,” he stared at them quietly and his voice dropped, “that you haven’t been able to gather more information on this new crop of Assassins.”

A chill went through the room. Many of the attendants felt the need to turn around and see if anyone was lurking in the shadows behind them but no one dared to move.

The Grand Master directed his scrutinizing gaze at each and every one before returning to his speech. The fact that he had mentioned Lamarque’s death only in passing was an oddity best not commented on.

“I suppose that all of you know about my grandson,” he continued. Then he stopped short of running a hand through his white hair lest he reveal his frustration and instead focused on the Templar ring on his finger. When he looked up again, he was met with blank stares. Only Javert had a perceptive look in his eyes that he didn’t try to hide. Once something had piqued his interest, it was as if he’d picked up a scent. Like an animal, he wasn’t able to conceal his true nature which was driven by duty as well as curiosity.

Gillenormand nodded slowly, acknowledging the Inspector. Then he spoke about the matter that was close to his heart and entirely too personal for such an occasion – however, he felt like he didn’t have much of a choice.

“He has run away from home and I fear that he won’t return in the foreseeable future, at least not voluntarily. It is thus with great shame and sadness that I must inform you of his ill-chosen path. I tried to prevent this just as I tried to prevent it with his father from whom I kept him separated but, it seems, to no avail.”

The Grand Master took a deep breath before stating matter-of-factly: “I believe that he wants to join the Brotherhood.”

No one gasped. No one took to whispers. Indeed, it seemed as if the room had gotten even quieter. Indignation was clearly written across the faces of those who didn’t care to veil it but apart from that everyone seemed to have fallen into deep thought. Javert narrowed his eyes. Finally someone asked: “Why would he do that?”

Gillenormand almost smiled at that. Almost. His brows furrowed.

“To spite me, of course. What does he care about free will? Or the rights of the poor? He’s a spoiled brat who learned the truth about his father and for some reason it inspired him to challenge me. I was hoping that he would come to his senses but it’s taking too long. With Casimir dead, we must be careful about renegades. I want this taken care of.”

Suddenly some of the Templars were squirming in their seats. Did he mean…? But surely he couldn’t…?

To Gillenormand the emotion on display was cowardice, nothing less than he had expected. So he addressed the only man in the room whom he trusted with this mission.

“Brother Javert, I want you to find out where Marius lives. Extort any information he may have on the Brotherhood; it’s important to learn something substantial about these younglings. If he cooperates, I want you to bring him home to me. If he refuses…”

The Grand Master fell silent for a moment and the Inspector gave no indication whether he knew what was expected of him or not. Everyone else in the room was holding their breath.

When Gillenormand didn’t finish his sentence, Javert raised his eyebrows inquiringly and asked:

“Kill him?”

The old man stared at Javert, weighing his options for a moment too long. Then he shook his head and cleared his throat.

“No. Arrest him.”

Javert nodded curtly, already running through all the options in his mind. For the rest of the meeting he kept calculating how much time he would have to spend on this and he came to the conclusion that he could complete the task in a couple of days.

After the gathering, Gillenormand approached Javert away from the others and asked only a simple question:

“Any word?”

Javert shook his head, knowing that the Grand Master wasn’t talking about Marius anymore.

“He remains at large,” the Inspector answered with as much indifference as he could muster.

The Grand Master understood and left it at that. Javert’s continued quest to apprehend Jean Valjean, the Assassin he’d been hunting for decades now, was a matter that didn’t need to be spoken about. Everyone knew, only Gillenormand asked from time to time. Javert always wished he wouldn’t. It made his failure all the worse.

 

\-----

 

Javert had only ever lived one life; a just life, a fair life. The life of the righteous. When he had first opened his eyes to the world, he had been set on a different path, being born to a mother who had told fortunes (a profession unfit for someone so unfortunate) and a father who had been a crook, a criminal. Born into prison, Javert had been surrounded by the scum of the Earth and it would’ve been so easy to become one with it, to join the rest of the poor and the forgotten, huddled masses rife with sin. But Javert had made a choice. He had made the choice to reject everything ugly that was thrown at him. Instead he had sought to cleanse the world and lead it into a new time of peace. All people search for beauty, for that which makes their souls sing with delight. Javert was no exception – he was, after all, human. In the end he had found that only order provided him with a sense of beauty. Nothing but sets of rules held the promise of justice in a universe of chaos. And justice was all Javert could ever strife for.

So when the chance had presented itself, he had chosen to enforce the law in whichever way possible. He had chosen to become a guard in the Bagne of Toulon where his father had been a galley slave and he had seen him in the eyes of every convict crawling through the mud. In a way, it had always felt as if he was punishing something other than the prisoners on his watch. It was easy because they were all just numbers. Except for one.

24601 had been different. Javert had noticed him for his strength but there had been something else about him. The way he moved, the way he walked. Going against his usual habits, Javert had made inquiries about the man and when they’d borne no fruit, he had questioned a superior – the superior who had been his mentor from the beginning. The superior had looked at him with knowing eyes, staying silent for a long time. And then, matter-of-factly, he had revealed the truth about 24601 being an Assassin and he himself being a Templar. He had told Javert of the age-old struggle between Order and Brotherhood, Cain and Abel. That’s where it had begun.

It bothered him that 246--- that Jean Valjean was still out there. And as long as that man remained free, Javert wouldn’t stop looking for him.

But – however much Javert was caught up in finding the Assassin, he never dwelled on the past. Contrary to appearances he wasn’t indifferent to it but he rarely thought about it. All that mattered was catching the criminal, not how they had come to be in the places they were. There was a good side and a bad side in this war and Javert knew very clearly where he stood.

 

\-----

 

In the end, it took the Inspector less than a day to track down Marius Pontmercy, the grandson of his Grand Master. Gillenormand had been the head of the French Templars for a long time now and Javert had known him for many years. He remembered a boy bursting into one of their secret meetings once, a boy with red hair and a large smile that quickly faded away at the scolding words of his grandfather. He remembered how the boy had looked at them, old men in white robes, with the strangest expression on his face, caught between laughing and crying. Gillenormand had been very stern then, admonishing the boy for following him and that no, this was not some game to play. The boy had looked crestfallen. Javert remembered it well. Since then, he had to have grown, not only in stature but also in confidence.

Right now the Inspector was standing across the street from where he suspected Marius to be living, pondering how to proceed next. His instructions were clear. Get the young man to talk and then get him to go along, if necessary with force. It was all very well in theory but the next steps would have to be carefully planned. Marius was unlikely to give up any information voluntarily. As a boy, he had been sensitive. Maybe he would easily yield to pressure. Javert thought about calling some of his police men as reinforcement. It was a boorish intimidation tactic but sometimes the simplest methods bore the best results.

Before he could come to any decision, his train of thought was interrupted by a girl walking up to the house where Marius had supposedly rented a room (under his own name no less – Javert could only wish for Valjean to ever do something that naive). A memory stirred. He had seen this girl before but where? All the low life from the streets tended to blend together in his head. Dressed in rags, a body thinned by hunger, she could’ve been anyone. Curious, Javert hid from view and got a little spyglass out that he always kept in his uniform. For now he would wait and observe. He had a bit of time to spare before his duty began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. This chapter got too long and I split it up so the next one should be up soon since it's already longer than this one. Writing an Assassin's Creed/Les Mis crossover is so much harder than I'd thought D:


	5. Caught in a Web

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Considering the social plight depicted in _Les Misérables_ , I feel like saying: Happy Workers' Day!

“Éponine!” Marius smiled with delight when he answered the door, unaware of the person lurking across the street, watching them. He wasn’t in the best of spirits ever since talking to Enjolras the day before but seeing Éponine lifted them considerably. She had become such a good friend in the short time that he’d known her. Actually, she had been the one who had gotten him into contact with the Brotherhood (through Courfeyrac) because she was no less resourceful and all-knowing than her little brother Gavroche. It was a pity that they had scoundrels for parents. They’d had no choice in their upbringing though Marius supposed that no one had, his mind bitterly wandering to his grandfather, once beloved and now… not hated, no, and not feared but… resented. Yes, Marius resented his grandfather for keeping him and his father apart and for never telling him the truth. Sometimes he wasn’t sure whether Gillenormand really believed in his warped sense of the world and its workings or if he just pretended so that others would follow him. But Marius had been to their meetings as a child, he knew that there was conviction behind their words, that’s what made them so dangerous.

“Can I come in?” Éponine asked urgently. Her cheeks were flushed. Quickly, Marius stepped aside to let her into his apartment.

“What’s the matter, ‘Ponine?”

“Remember, some weeks ago you asked me to find out where that old man and his daughter live-“

“Ah yes, that,” Marius interjected and his smile faltered. To cover up his emotions he quickly looked around his room, searching for something to busy himself with but he came up empty. He didn’t even have something that he could have offered Éponine as refreshment, a cup of coffee perhaps. Sometimes he forgot that he was poor now and couldn’t afford to invite anyone out for a drink, let alone have the means to provide one at home. So he turned around again, still feeling ill but putting on a brave front, clasping his hands awkwardly, swallowing hard. “Anyway, you can forget about that.”

Something lit up in Éponine’s eyes and if it was hope, Marius had no idea what to do with it.

“Are you not interested anymore?” his friend asked incredulously and there was something in her voice that he recognized and it pained him. It didn’t deserve to be crushed, it deserved to be cherished, but he couldn’t be the one to do so and he didn’t want to lie to her anyway.

“That’s… no, that’s not it.”

Shaking his head slowly, he didn’t wait to see Éponine’s reaction and instead decided that now was the time to tidy the place. His clothes were strewn across the apartment carelessly and now that Marius had noticed it, he felt slightly embarrassed by his lack of discipline. At home there had always been someone to clean up after him, some servant, though he had taken pride in the fact that he was largely self-sufficient.

Now he ran around, hastily trying to put everything away. If only Courfeyrac were here. He would suck all the awkwardness from the room like poison from a wound. In this very moment, Marius envied Enjolras and his single-mindedness. Their newly appointed Mentor just went about his business giving inspirational speeches and making those, who threatened their cause, disappear. He had his eyes set on one goal and one goal only and he knew what he had to do to achieve it, even if the road was long and hard. Marius wished that he could be like that. Forces were tearing him in different directions at all times, forces beyond his power and understanding. Sometimes he thought that he knew what he wanted but then it always turned out to be short-lived. He had no cause and no goal, nothing to strive towards. He had a grandfather who conspired against the people and that was all the family he had, all the love he’d ever receive unconditionally. All the riches in the world couldn’t offset such a… lonely life; a life in which he belonged nowhere.

“I did look for them and I found them,” Éponine blurted and she sounded so fierce that Marius felt compelled to look at her again. There was this urgency again, a pleading in her voice and he suddenly knew that it had nothing to do with whatever feelings she might’ve had for him. Here she was, dirtied and ragged, with a glow in her eyes that spoke of the spark within her, that fire that had never stopped burning despite everything. Marius was ashamed that he’d felt sorry for himself just moments ago when, looking at her, he knew that she’d had so much less growing up. Neither love nor riches.

“You are amazing, ‘Ponine, you know that? I knew that if anyone could- but, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

“No, you don’t understand! My parents are going to kill them!”

“Wait… what?!”

Marius felt dumbstruck. He had always known Éponine’s parents to be thieves and crooks but murderers?

“He doesn’t look rich but he’s always so generous to the poor and today he gave alms to my parents and promised to come back later with more money and they want to lure him into a trap and rob him… and kill him I suppose.”

“What about the girl?”

“I don’t know! But we have to go now or it’s too late.”

“Wait- should… shouldn’t we ask the others for help?”

Marius’ mind was reeling. If they could alarm the Brotherhood then this problem would be dealt with swiftly. But would they help? Enjolras had told Marius to stay away from the old man and his daughter and Assassins weren’t a police force that could be called upon at any given time, especially since they still had limited numbers. Maybe he should go to the actual police… but it would take long. Maybe…

“Listen, Marius, we have to be quick. I can lead you there but if we seek out the others first…”

“You’re right,” the young man conceded before grabbing his pistol and slipping a dagger into his boot. He hadn’t had the honor of receiving the hidden blade as he wasn’t a proper Assassin yet. Still, he could do this. “Let’s not waste time.”

Running after Éponine, Marius almost forgot to close the door but since he didn’t possess anything of value anymore, he couldn’t have cared less. That was his life now.

In their haste neither of them took notice of the shadow trailing behind them.

 

\-----

 

Valjean meanwhile was far from walking right into a trap. He had recognized Thénardier immediately when the wretched man had begged him for money, buried deep underneath tattered clothes. It was one of the perks of always being alert bordering on paranoid – you never forgot a single face. So Valjean had recognized the man who’d had the nerve to _sell_ him Cosette and if Cosette hadn’t recognized him it was only because Valjean had diverted her attention to a nearby street musician.

Valjean wasn’t exactly sure what he was going to do now that Cosette was safely out of harm’s way, ordered to stay at home in any case. He wasn’t a man of vengeance and though his past dealings with Thénardier had irked him, he didn’t tend to hold grudges. If only he could’ve told that to Javert. _Let bygones be bygones_. However much Valjean dwelled on the past, he never clung to its implications in an unhealthy obsession. Maybe he was going back to the beggar’s house for selfish reasons. Valjean wondered whether Thénardier had recognized him in return and he knew that he would never rest easy again without knowing for sure. If the man had recognized him, he would have to deal with the situation.

It was a late afternoon with evening fast approaching. Slowly, the light was growing dark and the air cold as Valjean quickened his step. He was feeling uneasy about what he was about to do. Dealing with the situation meant… it meant violence, most likely, and he had sworn to the Bishop once upon a time that those days were behind him. Still, here he was, strangely aware of the hidden blade on his arm. He had always kept it, of course, but he hadn’t worn it in a long time and where it had once felt like an extension of him, it now felt foreign and intrusive. Hoping that he wouldn’t have to use it, Valjean drew the cloak tighter around himself, crossing the street quietly. There was still the chance that Thénardier hadn’t recognized him in which case Valjean would merely assess the situation before tying him up and leaving him to the authorities. As he was nearing his destination, it occurred to him that he could turn back and get Cosette to move again without confronting the man. They would always be on the run anyway and why risk exposure? But Jean Valjean knew that he couldn’t turn back and not just because he wanted to silence Thénardier out of purely selfish reasons. No, in this very moment he realized that he couldn’t bear to witness such a man to remain at large and unpunished, willing and able to wreak havoc wherever he went. Who was he to allow such a man to go free when it was within his power to stop him? There was still some righteousness burning in him, the same fire that had lit his eyes once when set upon the injustice of the world. Nowadays he sought to fight it as a philanthropist and he liked to believe that everyone could change but he wasn’t so sure when it came to men like Thénardier, someone who even the Templars despised although they used him as part of their spy network from time to time.

Either way, this would all end today, Valjean thought grimly as he entered the building where the other man and his clique were surely waiting for him.

 

\-----

 

When Marius and Éponine arrived at the scene, the situation that presented itself was as followed: Spying through the window, they could see that the old man had been tied to a chair in the middle of the room and was surrounded not only by Éponine’s parents but also a group of dangerous looking thugs that Marius recognized as the Patron-Minette, mobsters from the worst underbelly of crime. Montparnasse, Éponine’s… friend, was also there which send a hot spike of anger through Marius’ body. Ever since he had once seen her bruised he had suspected Montparnasse to be the occasional violent lover of the poor girl but Éponine hadn’t said anything and she always seemed so in control and able to deal with delicate matters on her own that the suspicion had been diluted by reasonable doubt.

From what Marius could glean the daughter of the old man was not there, which was a mild relief. Éponine’s father – what was his name again, Jondrette? – shouted something at his captive but the old man took it all in a surprisingly composed and collected manner. He wasn’t amused but he didn’t seem frightened either. Now that Marius had the opportunity to study him more up close, the man didn’t seem as frail as he sometimes had during his walks in the park, weighed down by something. His hair was graying and his face lined by signs of age but he was sitting upright in his chair with his broad back and shoulders and Marius didn’t understand why his captors stood there, grimly smiling to themselves as if they’d already claimed what they were looking for. Going by the snippets of the rant that Marius could overhear, they were looking for money.

“Don’t you remember who I am?” Jondrette exclaimed ferociously, causing Éponine to flinch, probably in shame of her father.

“I do,” the prisoner responded calmly, “Your name isn’t Jondrette, it’s Thénardier. You were once an inn-keeper in Montfermeil.”

Stunned into silence, Thénardier stared at the man, obviously not having expected this. Marius hadn’t expected it either but for completely different reasons. His father had mentioned a Thénardier in his testament, a man who had saved his life upon the battlefield of Waterloo. And now Éponine’s father was this savior whom Marius had imagined as a hero? The contrast couldn’t have been more absurd and the coincidence not greater.

“I’m sorry for not telling you our real name but my father- ,“ Éponine whispered but Marius shook his head and indicated to his friend that there were more urgent matters at hand. Thénardier was a fiend and a fraud, someone who most likely often assumed different identities if it suited his purpose. There was no surprise in that.

Having a hard time concentrating, Marius only focused his attention again when the conversation turned to the prisoner’s daughter. Thénardier was demanding his address, seeking leverage by wanting to take her hostage as well, though Marius had no idea why Thénardier expected his captive to give him the right address. Judging by the way the old man complied without batting an eyelash, he probably didn’t either. Thénardier wrote the address down on a little piece of paper and handed it to his wife, spitting the words, “Fetch her!”

She immediately left the room.

Marius and Éponine retreated farther into the shadows to remain hidden outside the house when the woman exited it. Thinking rapidly, the young man murmured, “’Ponine, you have to follow your mother and make sure that she won’t-“

“- fetch her. Got it.”

“You’re an angel.”

“Angels aren't born in hell,” she wistfully smiled and then she vanished into the night so stealthily that Marius wondered why she wasn’t a part of the Brotherhood yet.

Her last words stayed on his mind for a while but he didn’t have time to ponder this now. Aside from Thénardier there were four other men in the room, all clad in blue linen blouses and wearing black masks. Marius had only recognized Montparnasse by his glossy dark hair and the slightly stiffening reaction of Éponine at his side. All of them were armed – one with a cudgel, another one with a pole axe usually found with butchers; this man had a massive build. Another one carried a hammer. They all looked dangerous enough but for a real Assassin they wouldn’t have posed any kind of threat. Marius reached for the pistol on his belt. He wasn’t an Assassin but what he lacked in skill he made up in conviction, at least in this very moment. He couldn’t stand to watch this any longer. He had to do something. He had to save the life of the man who was father to a lovely creature that didn’t deserve to be orphaned. The fact that he’d have to oppose Thénardier, a sergeant held in such a high esteem by Colonel Pontmercy, was – despite the earlier shock – only a minor dilemma. Marius had always imagined falling on his knees before Thénardier, to thank him for saving his father in that battle, for carrying him through smokes and flames, but having seen what he had seen here, there was no doubt as to the real character of the man. Still, Marius silently mouthed apologies to the heavens from where he felt his father looking down on him. Then he cautiously approached the door.

Maybe he stood a chance if he took out the colossus with the axe first. And that was exactly what he tried to do. He gripped his pistol tight in his left hand and his dagger in his right hand, taking a few deep breaths before barging through the door.

Having remembered the positions of his opponents he was able to plunge his knife into the axe-wielding member of the Patron-Minette first while the man was still facing away from him. Driving the blade up to the hilt into the back of the hulk, he ducked just in time as his foe roared in pain and swung around, cutting through the air where just moments before Marius’ neck had been. It all happened so fast that the young would-be Assassin had barely time to gather his bearings or pay attention to the commotion that had startled the room into action. Screams were heard as Marius raised his pistol to take aim at the man with the hammer but his hand trembled a moment too long and before he could fire he was tackled by the slim man who hit him with his cudgel. Spinning around, Marius shot his assailant instead but then the whole world was spinning as well and he was starting to think that this had been a bad idea – it was a distant thought permeating the fog that was clouding his brain, adrenalin and pain, all at once. Someone shouted something and while Marius slowly dropped to his knees, he realized that it was Thénardier giving his men the order to seize him and not kill him. Not yet, probably.

Someone grabbed him roughly from behind, forcing his arms into an aching position where they could be bound. Marius blinked a few times to regain his visions and it was only then that he felt something hot trickling down his forehead. He was violently pulled up to his feet and then thrown to the floor next to where the old man was still sitting on this chair with his hands tied behind his back. Groaning, Marius tried to lift his fingers to his face only to find that his arms had indeed been bound together and he was now as useless as the older man himself. As far as rescue missions went, this had been quite the disaster and Marius felt safe in assuming that even though it wasn’t over yet. In the faraway corner, the colossus with the axe was cursing and stumbling before coming to rest on the bed there. His face was a terrible grimace as he tried to remove the knife and Marius quickly focused on Thénardier again who was marching up and down, fuming about this turn of events, this… turbulence.

“Why are we keeping him alive?” the oaf from the bed asked in between hisses of pain and Thénardier almost snapped, looking ready to burst.

“Don’t concern yourself with things that require a brain,” he barked before turning towards Marius who felt more intimidated than he would have admitted.

“Who are you, boy?” Thénardier hissed, getting uncomfortably close, close enough for Marius to smell the faint hint of alcohol on his breath. “I know your face.”

Maybe he had seen him with Éponine once but the young man wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of telling him that. Instead he kept his mouth tightly shut. Angered by this, Thénardier grabbed him by the hem of his shirt and drew him even closer, whispering, “Talk or I’ll cut out your tongue.”

Marius was scared now, more scared than he had ever been before in his life. But while his eyes watered and his skin shone with the sweat of fear, his lips remained sealed.

“Leave him alone,” someone said with an impossibly calm voice that was all the more threatening for it and Marius belatedly realized that the old man beside him had spoken. Thénardier seemed unaware of the quiet threat. He let go of Marius, turning to his other captive, but instead of sobering, he smiled as if amused.

“A little protective, eh? He your bastard son? Son-in-law?”

“Neither. In fact, I don’t know him at all but that doesn’t make me forget my manners.”

Thénardier had the gall to look offended at the implication that his manners were lacking and he bared his teeth, circling the chair of the old man.

“So you don’t like my manners?”

And, leaning in, he whispered into his prisoner’s ear: “Maybe your daughter will like them more.”

He had barely finished those words when the old man stood as if he had never been tied down at all, sending the chair to the floor, grabbing the throat of Thénardier with considerable strength and holding him at arm’s length, all in one smooth motion. At first, the others were too startled to react but then the man with the axe blindly charged forwards, brandishing his weapon in what looked to be a sure death blow. Instead, the old man swiftly discarded Thénardier and moved towards his attacker, plunging a blade that had suddenly shot from underneath his sleeve into the gut of the colossus. Everything seemed to freeze. Even Thénardier, who had been scrambling around, rubbing his throat, stopped in his tracks. Marius just stared in… awe? Horror?

The axe moved first, falling from the now lifeless hands of its bearer. Then the huge man himself followed, sliding from the blade that had ended his life so quickly and unexpectedly. His eyes were still widened with surprise and his body hit the floorboard with a heavy thud.

For a moment, the silence was almost too much to bear. Then the old man sighed.

“I’ve had enough of this,” he darkly muttered and to Marius it was unclear whether he meant the hostage situation that he had been indulging, which was obvious now, or the fact that he had just killed another person. The man was an Assassin, it was all Marius could think about. He was an Assassin. What were the odds? But Marius had never seen him in their headquarters before. Was he from out of town, only here for a few months? But surely he would have announced his stay? And then there was his daughter. But before Marius could ponder on her, his thoughts were suddenly interrupted when someone slammed the door open, striding into the room with the confident air of law enforcement. He seemed familiar though Marius had trouble recalling why.

For the first split seconds it seemed as if the arrival was looking for him, the young Assassin trainee who was still lying on the floor, bound and bleeding. For those few moments, concern furrowed the brow of the man who was indeed wearing a police uniform. But then his eyes settled on the old man who did nothing to conceal the blade dripping with blood and his demeanor changed abruptly. Marius couldn’t describe the emotions that flickered over the man’s face before settling on a steely and cold expression that tried its best to be closed off and failed miserably. His voice was almost a growl when he spoke.

“Valjean.”

 


End file.
